Suicide by Sam
by Marlowe97
Summary: Sam meets an old very old Hell-Buddy of Dean. He get's to know a little more about Hell - and his inhabitants.


_Hi there._

_Had this little fic in my closet for a while and I guess it has been dormant long enough. I thought about this after watching 'Sin city', which I think wasn't too great. But the two demons... I kinda liked them. So, this is for them._

Content: Sam meets an old (very old) Hell-buddy of his brother - and gets to know a little more about Hell...

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the guys in my story, except Septimus. The rest goes to Kripke, damn the man... And sadly I don't get paid for this either, I do it for fun (and reviews)

Spoiler: Season four, nothing specific but it was written after 'On the head of a pin', so there is not much about what happened after that (and no suspenders, sorry)

Warning: Some language and hints of torture.

* * *

„Sam Winchester! Finally!"

The man wore a dirty red sweater, ripped pants and the weary, tired and haunted look of the hopelessly addicted speed-junkies. His hair had nearly all fallen out, only a few tufts were still on his skull, making him look like a really ugly Barbie-doll after the little sister had been playing 'hairdresser' with it. His eyes were speeding from left to right, right to left, up to down. He was a lost cause – except that he seemed to know Sam. And the way he smiled made Sam really apprehensive right now.

"Who are you? Do I know you??" Could be an old acquaintance after all.

"You don't know me, but I just came for you. Had to give you something." An evil chuckle escaped his dry lips and the dirty smile spread the skin on them so far that they started to bleed. That would have been a bad sign all by itself, but the jet-black eyes were a sure giveaway as to what was in front of him.

A demon.

"Came to tell you that I killed a good friend of yours. Remember Robert Singer? Seems he doesn't need this anymore…" He offered something to him – a blood-covered cap. It looked exactly like Bobby's. _But it's not possible. I was just talking to him on the phone. Not even a minute before he turned up…_

"Like it? Well, no worries. You'll soon be joining him, wherever he is now." The demon prepared to attack, Sam prepared to exorcise – or kill – it.

And just when the tension was so high it was about tangible, a nearly-happy voice sounded from behind the demon-addict.

"Hey Sam, who is your friend?"

Dean stepped around the car behind them. It was dark, but even in the dimly lit parking lot Sam believed to see all colour drain from the stranger. The demon turned around and Sam was in full 'protection'-mode. With a sharp hiss, he stepped between the junky and his brother, who was in danger and who he would _never_ let be hurt again. And he so didn't care about the puzzled and slightly hurt look in Dean's eyes, no – he didn't!

But nothing happened. Well, not anything of the usual demon-encounter-variety happened. Something strange did, though – the demon, which _really_ had lost all of his cheesy, unhealthy skin-tone, stumbled backwards. It was shocked – and Sam didn't even raise a finger.

"No, no – that's not… You cannot… How… Why… Where…. Why… What the _FUCK _are you doing here_????"_ It wasn't looking at Sam but past him, at his brother. A fast glance over his shoulder left Sam in the impression that Dean was as bewildered as himself. Dean took a half-step past his younger sibling to look at the person/demon in front of them, cocked his head and spoke one word.

"Septimus?"

The demon stumbled another step back; he was confused and looked…. not scared, but something similar. Sam couldn't put his finger on the right description.

"No, yes, how? Why? What…" The demon – _Septimus? – _stared at Dean but nodded. Sam was still unsure what this was about, was still sure it was a trap of some kind, was still dead-certain he had to save his brother's life once again – until Dean spoke up.

"You want small-talk or business?" The demon stayed frozen and whispered: "Business."

Without a further glance at Sam, without hesitation Dean grabbed the demon-killing knife out of his brother's waistband, stepped around him and with a smooth and deadly motion he was in front of the strange opponent and stuck the knife in his heart. Just like that.

Sam was pretty amazed about the speed and agility, but what really shocked him was the nearly gentle way Dean caught the smelly junky and laid him to the ground, watching as the demon in the human died the same way all demons died when killed with the knife. Flashing lights and a little wisp of smoke. Before all light went out, the demon whispered something. It that sounded like "Julia…"

Dean removed the knife, wiped it off on the dirty junky-clothes. Then he stood, graceful as a cat and returned the knife – hilt first – to his younger brother. Who needed a second to realize it. He was … amazed. Not only about the strange scene, but also about the grace with which Dean could still move. It stunned him every time, especially since he had begun to doubt his brother's ability to defend himself. Dean's "Let's go, I brought beer" snapped Sam out of his musing. He looked at the cappy on the ground and opened his cell-phone, calling Bobby while he followed his brother.

*

"It wasn't Bobby's cap."

"I know." Dean sat on his bed, lost in thought. While he looked completely at ease, Sam was burning with energy. He paced through the tiny room and tried to wrap his mind around the display from the parking lot.

"Will you sit down? You're making me nervous."

"And what are you planning to do to stop that – kill me like him?" Sam couldn't believe that he actually said this. What right did he have to say something like that – he was the one who thought Dean weak and world-weary – how could he actually be pissed about the fact that he wasn't? _Maybe because I want him to be weak…_ He stopped the pacing, trying to find the strength to apologize. _When did it start to be so damn difficult to say 'Sorry'? I guess Elton John is wiser than Dean gives him credit… _But just as he took a deep breath, he heard a faint chuckle. Not what he expected – definitely not.

"Are you laughing?" _What, pissed again? Sam, pull yourself together! What's gotten into you?!_

"Yes, Sam. I'm laughing. You look cute, the way you walk a path in the floor. Did you really mean that? That I might kill you? You still think I could? I mean – that I could _physically_ attack you and kill you? Considering your recent behaviour, thoughts and thoughtless insults, I take that as a compliment." Sam stared at the man. He was… stunned at the ease with which Dean seemed to take his demeaning attitude. _When did this start? When did it stop to bother him, the way I treat him?_ It hurt. Sam wasn't sure why, but it hurt. A look at his brother made it clear that Dean realized that too just now – once again he seemed to tap into his brain, the way it had been before Hell. THAT was strangely comforting. _Man, what a fucked up family we are… _Sam sat down.

"You knew him." It was a statement; Dean wouldn't be able to lie about that. Would he?

"Yes."

"From where?" _Don't I know it? Do I have to dig into that wound again? Don't answer, Dean – I didn't mean to pry… _

"Take a guess, Sam…" Dean looked away – not at something, but off in the distance, focussing on something somewhere else.

"You don't…" Sam started. _You don't need to talk about it. If you don't want to. __I'll understand. __Promise. _But his brother refocused, looked into the hazel eyes across the room and smiled a little ruefully.

"Thanks, but I guess you should know. You deserve it. I wonder when he got out…" His gaze fled somewhere else again, but then his face set and he looked at Sam. The way he used to when all was well, all was as normal as it could be for them.

"I met him in Hell. His name was Septimus and his wife was called Julia."

**

"Septimus? The seventh? Latin?"

"Yep, he was a Roman. You know – ancient Rome-Roman. He sold his soul so he could get to his wife, who sold _her _soul for the life of their only daughter. Compared to them, our family wasn't nearly as screwed."

"They became demons?"

"Yes, a million-trillion-whatever years in Hell will do that to you. But still – they were totally devoted to each other. I never believed that a demon is capable of love, but it seemed I was wrong. When we first met, I thought him to be … well, just another …" he stopped and looked at Sam, a little of the weariness creeping back into his eyes. _He wants to tell me, but he is not sure if I want to listen…How long has it been this way? Did I miss the signs? Damn – did I really mess up this bad?_

"Another what?" _Relief in his eyes – talk to me, brother. This time, I will listen. Promise._

"Another torturer."

***

_He had been hanging for twelve years now. Ripped apart, made whole again only to be ripped and cut and torn apart again. And again and again. And all the time it hurt. Every cut, every punch, every broken bone. Everything hurt. His world had turned to pure, undiminished pain. No repose except when Alistair asked him his little question – day after day after day. And then the bastard had gotten inventive. He had found new and exciting ways to hurt him, to wreck him and fuck with his mind. And it had only been twelve years, not even close to eternity._

_So, one day he hung on the hooks, waiting for his Master – as Alistair liked to call himself. Sometimes the bastard did that – let him wait, give him hope that today would be different, today he would be spared, today Alistair would be busy somewhere else. But of course – he never was. He always came back, and it always hurt._

_Only today, it WAS different!_

"_Dean Winchester?" A demon, hideous as they come. He looked awful, terrible. Melted face and unrecognizable features. If Dean hadn't been hurting so much, he would have laughed at the toga which hung on the grey body of this THING. But he did hurt, and so he only chuckled._

"_You Nero? Or Cesar? I bet you are – great to meet you here. I always wanted to tell you what I thought about your stupid 'De bello gallico' and how much I don't care a damn about 'Gallia est omnes'!" His voice was unrecognizable, even to him. The vocal cords had once again ripped because of the screams, and somehow those never healed in sync with the rest of his wounds. Maybe the demons didn't appreciate his constant chatter of insults and cockiness when he wasn't screaming at the top if his lungs?_

"_What?" The demon looked puzzled, as far as you could say with its sorry excuse for a face. Dean coughed and it HURT. He breathed in and it HURT. He wanted to cease. Cease to exist. He never would, tough. This was what he bargained against Sammy's life – this was what he deserved. 'So suck it up, Winchester. Get a grip and stop complaining – well, maybe stop screaming first. Complaining comes later…'_

"_I would like to ask you something…"_

"First I thought he was a ruse. You know – to get information. Remember what they say? 'When torture is not working, it is often kindness that breaks them'. Not that he was particularly kind…"

Sam sat at the bed, not daring to move. He was getting cramps in his leg, but he would be damned to break this chance. Dean was talking. And he was talking to him, not some angel. To **him**! He needed this, and though he was aware of the included, he also knew that Dean needed this as well. _Too long, bro'. But I understand. It hurts to listen – how much more must it hurt to tell?_

"He was not cruel or anything, he never touched me. He just talked. Which in a way WAS torture, but at least for a while I had someone to complain to." The self-conscious smirk – trademark Dean Winchester.

"And strangely enough, he sometimes listened. But most of the time, he tried to get information. About you."

"_No. No way am I telling you anything about him. Now get going, or get started – I won't talk about him. He has no business being here – not his soul, not even his name!" _

_For the first years, he had been able to hang on to his cocky attitude, even though it brought him more pain. But here's the crazy thing – at least he HAD had some control that way. Even if it was just control over the amount of pain he would feel that day – it __**was**__ control. So he kept insulting and bickering about the demons that came for the torture – Alistair being nice enough to let some of his apprentices practice on his favourite toy. So when he met Septimus, his cockiness was still there and he used it plenty. _

_To his utmost surprise, the demon didn't take the blade from the table, didn't tighten his cuffs, didn't start stretching his limbs – did in fact do nothing but sit in front of him and watch him hanging spread-eagled from long chains in the middle of the torture-chamber. He felt curiously embarrassed to just hang there, in one piece yet, only a sore throat. Yea, well. And the pain in his arms, legs, shoulders where the hooks were buried and thirst, hunger and whatever discomfort you could imagine. He even felt nauseous, but he knew from experience that throwing up was more painful down here than it was up there. Not that there was anything in his stomach to get rid of… The demon settled on a stone and started to talk._

"_I want you – I beg you to tell me how to make him mad. Please, tell me." _

_****_

"He was very persistent. He only wanted to know how to make you mad. Since he never told me why, I didn't want to tell him. But he came every day, always before…" Dean swallowed and Sam just _knew_ that he was thinking of Alistair. He might regret a lot, but Sam would NEVER regret killing that particular demon. Never. Not ever. He did regret that he killed him so fast. And that he hadn't gotten to him before this piece of shit had been able to lay his dirty, disgusting hands on his brother AGAIN! _Calm down, Sam. This is his story. Your part is to listen._ He focused back on Dean, fighting the familiar urge to hit something. Which was good, since this particular Sam 'turning-to-John' Winchester-trait more often than not resulted in saying something monumentally stupid and hurting the one person he had sworn to protect from more pain for as long as any of them lived.

"Well, after a while I really started to look forward to see him. Isn't that just pathetic? To look forward to seeing a demon? I mean … Really…" His voice trailed off and Sam wasn't sure if he was once again ashamed or if he really wanted an answer. Since he had become a really shitty listener the past months, making way too many mistakes concerning his brother's state of mind, he opted for the second.

"I don't know. If there is someone who is not hurting you in a place where all you know is pain, I guess it is safe to say that _everyone_ would be glad to see him. So – no. I don't think it's pathetic. But why did he ask about me? Why would he want to know how to make me mad?"

"Because you had killed Julia."

"_We had been together. For all my life I had known her; we grew up next door to each other. The minute I saw her I was sure she would be the one I would marry. And I did. We were happy, and we had a great daughter. Portia. Only, one day Portia fell into the Tiber and nearly drowned – and we were absolutely devastated. She wasn't coming back, she was breathing but something was wrong. We took her home and made her comfortable, but she was fading away. And then one day she woke up. Just like that. That's what I thought, until Julia confessed that she had sold her soul to get her back."_

_Dean had been barely able to listen, since somehow his 'Master' had forgotten to repair him completely that day. He was still bleeding, still had broken bones sticking through his skin. But unconsciousness was not an option – Alistair never let him off that easy. He was awake through every piece of flesh, through every slap of skin that was destroyed. After all, what fun would it be to torture someone who wasn't aware? Of course Alistair never just forgot. It was part of his game. And that day, he was in a foul mood, being particularly creative and cruel. So after everything was done, he just left him and instead of an instant repair, he left him in pieces. He had been doing this for a few days now, and Dean had learned to loath it. Because it felt so GOOD when he started to heal, it felt so wonderful when everything was back in its place, and though it hurt like a bitch when his bones realigned themselves, he always had to weep with relief when they finally were in one piece again. _

_And that was the cruelty of it – Alistair always left him enough time to let him feel relief and this tiny, tiny flicker of hope. Only to take it away again. _

_So in those precious moments of regaining hope, Septimus took his seat in front of him and talked and begged and asked. But Dean didn't mind anymore – it took his concentration off the feeling of his bones grinding against each other to get back to the place they actually belonged._

"_So… what did you do?" _

"_The only thing I could do. The only thing that was an option for me. I followed. Because to be honest – DON'T LAUGH!" Septimus had shot from his seat and before Dean was aware of it, he was in front of him. His eyes burnt in a silent fury and if he had forgotten who was talking to him – WHAT was talking to him – now he remembered. This was a demon, after all. And a very, VERY old one as that…_

"_Srry…" Dean actually felt inclined to apologize. He was strung up like a piece of leather, hurt far beyond his endurance and had been sure there was NOTHING he could possibly be ashamed of anymore – having been submitted to every and any form of humiliation and torture in the book. But still – the way this … this demon, this THING looked at him made him feel small and whiny and terribly, terribly ashamed of himself. Ashamed for ridiculing him._

"See, he was a bad, bad – capital letter-bad - … thing. He had been to earth more than once, he had wreaked havoc in many countries, destroyed thousands of souls, killed, murdered, raped and mutilated millions of people – but he loved his wife. And when I sniggered about the word 'honestly', he actually managed to scare me a bit. Which – after I thought there was nothing that could scare me anymore – came as a surprise. So I apologized. "

"Did he hurt you?" Sam had become very, very subdued. He was pale, loosing more and more colour while his brother talked about Hell. His hands were ice-cold. Dean didn't elaborate, never told the full extend of what was done to him, but Sam was good at reading between the lines. Too good. He could easily fill in the missing pieces and pictures when Dean talked about "hanging around and waiting for Alistair" or "having nothing to do right then". 'Having nothing to do' being opposed to screaming…

"I told you, he never touched me. He was bad, but somehow… I don't know. When I met him, all the fight had already left him. Since his wife was gone, everything, even the last tiny piece of him was gone too. And instead of making him worse, it had left him burnt out."

"But you said that it was torture. Him talking?"

"Oh. Yes, in a way. It was meant to be some half-witty comment, but you are right – it was quite painful to listen to his story. But it was not intended, so I didn't mind that much. Funny, I felt a little sorry for him, and damn, that scared the crap out of me… It would be so easy to feel sorry for a lot of souls down there, and I didn't really want to go there. It wouldn't help – and Alistair had already made it clear what he really wanted from me. Not mentioning the detail with the seal, of course. So, feeling sorry was not an option. Maybe, if I _had _ felt sorry longer…"

"Don't go there, Dean! Please, don't." _Thirty years. How can anyone actually be ashamed for thirty years of resistance? Even when he picked up the knife, thirty years of defiance and pain should count for something. Why can't he see that? _It had gotten dark around them, but no one was inclined to switch on the light. Sam because he didn't want to move, Dean because he didn't want Sam to see him. He was willing to talk about Septimus, but he would be damned if he had to look at what his sugar-coated tales from the crypt would do to his brother. He knew what it would do to _him_ if the roles where reversed. Dean sighed.

"He loved her. He really, absolutely loved her. And even in death, even in Hell, they stayed together. When he was ordered to earth, he always returned as fast as possible. Like a carrier-pigeon – that's what he called himself. She was his everlasting weakness, and he would do everything they wanted him to. Julia stayed down in the pit, or he would stay down in the pit. Because it was a two-way street. It was the same for her. In the beginning, their souls were always kept apart, but soon Hell figured that it would be much easier to hurt them if they hurt their loved one. So they put them in a cell together and made them watch while the partner was … well. You know. And that's why it didn't even take two years for them to become what they were. Demonic. Evil through and through"

He stopped talking and Sam felt his brother's eyes on him.

"You know, when I heard him say it – that they made him watch them while … hurting Julia …"

"What?"

"I actually thanked the stars that I was alone. It wouldn't have… Well, anyway – he told me a little secret among the demons." _That's not what you wanted to say. Why did you stop? You wouldn't have… resisted? If anyone you cared about was there? So – if Dad had still been in Hell… Or worse – me… Yeah, I guess I know the answer to that one._

"What secret?"

"About your reputation." Now Sam could feel his brother grinning, even though it was too dark to see his face. It was just the way the air around them changed, making the world a little less gloomy, a little less scary. Man, he had missed this smile! And those three words were laced with so much pride that Sam was made painfully aware of how much his brothers approval still meant to him.

"My reputation?"

_  
"Is it true?" He had been 'distracted', didn't really listen to his companion. He didn't even notice that he was there, hadn't heard him come. He usually did, so he was a little worried that this time it had been different. _

"_Huh?" _

"_Sorry, I thought you were halfway alright again." Now Dean really had to chuckle –and man, did that hurt – even giggle when he noticed his face. After months with Septimus, he had become adept to read the melted, ugly faces of demons and had also been able to tell them apart. He would recognize Lilith and Alistair everywhere…_

"_Why are you laughing?"_

"_Sorry, but I guess I'm as far from alright as I can possibly be. What do you want to know? What is true?" No, there was no desperation in his voice, he was not trying to actually befriend a demon, trying to keep him with him. No, definitely not. _

"_About the knife your brother has? That it kills demons? Actually... kills them?" What could it hurt if he knew? Should be obvious to the hell spawns, shouldn't it?_

"_Yes."_

"_So… she is dead." He said it so matter-of-factly, but there seemed to be a tiny bit of … happiness?... in those words. _

"_What do you mean?" _

"_Huh? Oh, just that… Julia has been gone for so long. She was supposed to be back already. But she didn't come, and I was worried. Some said maybe she didn't want to go back – you know, usually no-one wants to come back if given the choice. But I was still here, and I know – I just KNOW she would never leave me. __So… __And then I heard them talking about this knife, and that it actually destroyed you. Made you cease to exist. And I just knew if this is true then Julia is gone. Just gone. So I had to know if there is really a knife like this out there. And when I asked, they all said it belongs to Sam Winchester. But nobody would know how to find him, and then I met a few who had encountered your brother. They said he was exorcising more often, not killing them."_

"_He doesn't want to kill the host."_

"_What? Really? He is reluctant to kill the possessed, even if it means that the demon he extracts will be back on earth one day? Because that is what will happen – it is the ultimate truth: they all want out, they all will take every chance to leave." Septimus looked over his shoulder, his demon-senses were able to tell when his time with the prisoner was over._

"_Except for him. Alistair likes it here…" And he stood and left Dean to his Master._

*****

"Next time he returned, he started begging. He said he would do everything he could, if I just told him where or how to find you." Sam didn't have to ask what his brother's answer had been. He just _knew_ that Dean would never tell. _Funny, how certain I am. But he wouldn't. If the first seal would have been ratting out your brother, the apocalypse would still be ages away. _He shuddered when he followed this thought. _Would any angel bother to get him out if they knew he wouldn't break? Would he be here, or still rotting in Hell? _

"What?"

"Huh? Sorry, I was … never mind. Go on."

When Dean started again, Sam could hear the slight uncertainty in his voice. _Can't blame him, can I? He does the unthinkable – talk about himself – and I get distracted. I'll tell him why, but if I do it now, we won't finish this. _

"Hmm… Well, I asked him what exactly he _could _do. Not that I would have told him, but I wanted to know… well, I just wanted to know. Turned out he couldn't really do anything. I was for Alistair or Lilith – no other demon had any say over me. He couldn't even loosen the shackles. Though to be fair – he did try."

"Really? You asked?" Questions like these were the reason for Dean to keep the lights out. None of his masks would be able to hide his reaction to them. Of course he had asked!

"Yeah… He said I should ask something from him, so he could show me that he was honest. I didn't believe him, but since there was nothing better to do…"

Sam swallowed hard, thankful for the small mercy of total darkness. His eyes were getting moist, and how did _that_ fit in with Sam Winchester, mighty slayer of demons and monsters? He tried to keep his imagination from filling in the space between the lines. _I don't really want to know, I don't really want to know, I don't really want to know… _ Even though his thoughts were still running wild, his voice was controlled and calm.

"Why didn't you ask him to get out completely?" Now Sam felt the 'Look' on him. The one that had him feeling stupid and slow on the uptake since childhood.

"Dude, _of course_ I asked him to get me off the hook and out. That's what he tried, but as strange as it sounds, there are rules and regulations in Hell, preventing demons from interfering with someone else's plaything. He tried to open the locks, but nothing happened. No… not nothing." His voice was barely a whisper, Sam wasn't sure if he heard the last words at all or if he imagined them. Before he could stop it, his mouth ran off again.

"What?"

"… " An audible swallow

"They grabbed him and took him away. He was gone for… Huh, I don't know. A long time. I think. Can't tell, but it felt like a long time. Anyway, when he was back, he _apologized!_ How weird is that? And now that it was clear that he couldn't really do anything for me, I was even more puzzled as to why he would still come. Because he did. And he kept asking and begging. Tell the truth, he started to annoy me a little…"

Sam was listening, but a part of his brain kept trying to block out another unpleasant image. _Why would Septimus apologize? For not visiting? Or is there another reason – did Alistair hurt Dean even more, as punishment for asking a favour? I guess he would… I don't know if I prefer this here, or the uncensored story. I don't know if reality could be worse than my imagination… On the other hand – it probably was. Which is starting to creep me out completely… _Before he could dwell in this he snapped back to attention, glad that Dean hadn't said much. He too seemed lost in thought – and Sam was sure it wasn't a good thing to leave him there.

"He _begged_?"

"Yeah, he begged. Once, I asked him why – if he needed to know so badly, why he didn't _make_ me tell him." The silence from Sam was so loud it yanked his brother out of his strange, contemplating mood. "Sorry, I was kind of cranky that day. I don't know why I said that, but he looked at… well at the stuff that Alistair had left and than he just… turned away. Just like that. He looked at me and said that he didn't want to waste his time. Said that he had the strange feeling – yes, he said feeling – it wouldn't result in me telling him. And then he asked me what it would cost him. How he could persuade me to tell him your whereabouts."

"_Tell me why. No other way. I won't tell you where to find my brother, but after I don't know how many months in your company, you managed to make me curious. So: why?"_

_Septimus looked at him and sighed. It was a terrible sigh, very creepy and very smelly. _

"_Did you know a lot of demons around here try to get to your brother? More than ever before. And I'm not talking about the ones that like to create chaos just for the fun of it. Sure, there are a lot of those too. But I mean demons like me. That never cared about the 'real' world a lot – doing Hells bidding because the alternative is worse and not caring one way or the other. I did a lot of things that you would call vile, evil and cruel. And I did them without regret – I still don't regret any of them. But there are demons that do them with enthusiasm, really like doing them. They are creative in methods of torture, they are filled with pleasure when they rape and burn an maim and brutalize humans. Soul and body alike. Like Alistair. He stays here just because he figured that human bodies are so fragile, they die too soon for him to reach the amount of pleasure he seeks. So he stays here, where he gets as many souls as he wants, as many as he needs. And he keeps them as long as they please him…"_

"_Sorry, but I really, REALLY don't want to talk about him. So either change the subject or piss off!"_

"_You are kind of bitchy today, aren't you?"_

"_That's it. Piss OFF!!!"_

_But Septimus didn't leave. He waited a little for the temper to settle more towards painful resignation. Because being a demon, he knew that Dean didn't want to be alone. Human souls never wanted to be alone, and this one needed someone to argue with. Amazing resistance, even though he __**would**__ break in the end. They all did, and this young man wouldn't be an exception. Alistair was still too pissed about the last Winchester escaping his grasp – he would make this one pay for his father's stubbornness. And John's flight… however he pulled it off. There had been terrible, terrible years of torture and wrath after that little incident. They had questioned each and every demon and soul in Hell to find out how John Winchester got out. They never found out, and the interrogations had stopped after hundred years. When finally his son arrived…_

"_So. The 'nicer' of your Hell-buddies go seeking Sam?" Resignation in his voice – so much that he didn't notice his brother's name escaping his lips. When he was coherent, Dean Winchester never spoke the name. Never. Septimus took it as sign. Maybe today he would get the answers he needed? _

"It turned out that more and more demons came here to confront you. Sure, they would try to take you out or follow any path they were ordered to – or just have fun. But Hell being what it is, some figured out a way to escape it. Forever."

"How?"

"Confront you. Forcing you to use the knife. Kill them. Once and for all."

"What? Demons on a suicide-mission? You didn't believe him, did you?" Sam was incredulous. No, this couldn't possibly be true. Demons were bad, were evil, were… _not_ human enough to long for death. Never. Couldn't be. He felt the strange look on him. _How does he manage to make me feel his gaze? Even in complete darkness?_

"Of course I believed him."

"What?????" Sam didn't understand, didn't believe. OK, maybe a demon _could_ hold on to his love in Hell, maybe he (or she – don't forget her!) _could_ remember humanity and the emotions it brought with it. But wanting to die? Actually wanting to leave existence, just like that? Couldn't be true. He heard a sigh and turned towards it. The bed was further away from him – somehow it had moved. Or he had… _Damn, I ruined it. Again. Have to get this anger under control. _

"Sorry. Dean, I…"

"Yeah. Whatever." Resignation.

"No! Don't stop. I want to know – I'm sorry, ok? Please, go on – please?"

"Sam… Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone would want to leave Hell? And I mean leave forever? You do realize that _I _wanted to cease existence just as bad, right? Septimus was evil. He was – I know that now and I knew then. He admitted it. I knew it, and I never, NEVER considered him a friend. He was bad. But that doesn't mean he wanted to stay in Hell. In forty years down there, I only met one demon who didn't want to leave and come to earth. One. Even Bitch-Queen herself preferred earth. Everyone wants to leave, because Hell is… HELL!!!"

The last word was a sharp hiss, louder and more hurtful than any shout could ever be. Dean wasn't resigned anymore, he was annoyed. No – pissed. Because Sam still didn't get this little fact inside his head: evil or not, Hell was not some unpleasant holiday-trip. His brother had known once, he probably still knew it somewhere inside – but somehow his new abilities clouded this knowledge, making him cold to the possibility of people's pain.

Or so it seemed. Whenever Dean witnessed signs of this new callousness, he felt it like a stab in the heart. Maybe his brother was right, maybe he _was_ weak and … maybe even a little too emotional. But so what? He could relate to other people's pain – didn't mean he forgave them their actions. Didn't stop him from doing what was necessary. Not really. Having bad luck, a crappy past or spending a little time in hell or Hell was sad. No matter who was concerned – the fact alone was bad enough. But it was NOT an excuse. It might be taken as an explanation, might be taken as mitigating circumstance.

_Should_ be taken as mitigating circumstance. But no matter what happened to a person – as long as you are fully aware of it, your actions cannot be excused away. A boy getting beaten up regularly by his dad does _not_ excuse the same boy beating up _his_ son later. It doesn't! You have a free will.

You choose – you have to live with the consequences. Or you don't live. Again: your choice. _He_ had chosen to live with it. Even though it hurt, even though it took his breath away sometimes, even though he told Castiel he couldn't do it anymore – he still chose to stay and fight. More reluctantly maybe, less reckless. A little more worried about the outcome, now that the outcome would affect the world, not only himself and what was left of his family. But he _chose_ to stay. And for the first time since his reappearance on earth he acknowledged and believed it:

It had been his choice.

If he really wanted to leave, if he really wanted to stop fighting – nobody, not Castiel and not his superiors, would be able to MAKE him. _So yes, Sam. I'm still more than broken about giving in to Alistair. I am, and you cannot take this shame and guilt away, as much as you want to. Because I chose. It felt like having no alternative – but I had. You always have. Being human gives you the free will to choose. There are only explanations, never excuses. I wouldn't blame anyone else who broke under this torture. No one. You may be prepared to forgive me, or Bobby, Cas, Anna – they all might be able to forgive me. But I cannot forgive myself. And that is NOT weakness! It wouldn't make it better if I told myself it was alright and believe it. It would turn me in someone I am not – and don't want to be. And the Sam who is still somewhere in you, the one I went to Hell for? That Sam wouldn't want me to be either. So for his sake, I guess I have to live with the consequences. And do everything I can do to prevent Lilith from succeeding. Come what may._

"You ask why? Because I cannot think that they are actually human enough to want to die. I cannot look at them in pity. I don't want to feel sorry for them – and I really don't like the fact that you do." Sam answered his outburst. He had been a little shocked, but he longed to answer. He just hoped that Dean didn't turn silent once more. Again, the light chuckle surprised him.

"That's a change… I remember it used to be the other way 'round…" The voice from the bed had turned a little wistful.

"Sam, who said you should? Who said I do? They are evil. A little kindness – well, not really kindness, more the absence of cruelty – during my spell in Hell doesn't absolve Septimus from his deeds. He was still capital-letter-bad. And he is still dead. I don't regret that I killed him, and neither should you regret killing other demons. Don't regret that, Sam. I pity the circumstances that turned some of them evil, but I don't forget what they are. What they have done, what they planned to do. And I will fight them wherever and however I can. If killing one instead of exorcising it is actually what he wants – well, that is just their luck. Because I don't care what _they_ want."

Sam was silent, but there was still something on his mind. He wasn't sure if he could bring it up, though. It must have been stressful to relive Hell, even if it was just a little bit. But before he could reach a decision, he heard his brother's voice again.

"What is it?" _Amazing. His radar is still working, he still knows when I want to talk. I wonder how bad I have to mess up to destroy his big-brother-mode? Hopefully, I never find out…_

"Sam?"

"Yeah…I've been thinking – what about the host? I mean – when you killed Septimus, you didn't even hesitate. That's another thing that worries me. You know… I am kinda scared that you take more pity in the demon than in the man." It was out. "Sorry" he added, because there was really potential for an insult in the sentence. But it seemed Sam had dodged the bullet this time.

"Ordinarily, I'd agree. And in any other case I would definitely prefer exorcism – the old fashioned way, just to make that clear. But sometimes it's just not possible. You know that. And in this special case, I was sure the host wouldn't leave too much a gap in society or his family."

"How can you be sure?"

"_What do I have to do? Tell me, please. I want to cease, I need to leave this… this… this – world? I cannot even find a name for this. Hell doesn't apply anymore, it is just a word. I need to go. I want to rest. Forever. Please… They say you have compassion. Not as much as your brother, but you are not here because of your past actions. You are not evil. You came here for something good – like me and my wife in the beginning. I'm not the same anymore, if you let me loose in the world you know, I will kill and torture and I will not even regret it. I never regret anything. I forgot how to show mercy or compassion or anything a long, long time ago. They took it away from me – like they will from you. That's why I need you to tell me know – before they break you. Before you enjoy the pain. Your own and the pain of others. And you will. One day, you will. I'm barely restraining myself to do what Alistair does to you. I RESTRAIN myself and try to be FRIENDLY! And it…it disgusts me to do so. I'm evil – I know that. Funny, there must be something left inside that judges my actions – because I know that it is not right to do what I do. The way I feel. It is wrong… though how I know, or how I'm able to dislodge myself from the blackness in me… I cannot say. So please – what difference will it make? I will be gone, I will leave the world. One less evil your brother has to fight. One less demon to worry about. That cannot be bad – can it? Why don't you see it? Why don't you kill me – the only way you __**could**__ kill me? Absolutely and completely erase me from the world. That must count as 'good' in your world. Doesn't it?"_

"_Oh, shut up, will you!" His voice was raspy and the short sentence was painful. He couldn't talk yet, Alistair had found something new. He just hurt so damn much, and it was torture to listen to this…THING begging him to give him the peace he longed for. Why should he? Why should he give in to something like this, something vile, and foul and badbadbadBAD? What right did it think it had to ask him that? Talk about compassion? There is no compassion in Hell. Nobody showed any compassion towards him, so why…why should he show it?_

"_Guess I'm too late…" Septimus sounded defeated. He looked definitely sad, and his words were barely a whisper – hopeless. It struck Dean more than he would have believed, but until this very second, Septimus had always come to him hopeful. Hoping against hope that today he would get what he wanted, he would get closer to what he desired – no – __**longed**__ for. And DAMN he knew this feeling. He knew it tasted bittersweet. He knew it turned to acid in his stomach every time hope was taken away, shattered to pieces and painfully ripped out of him. It touched him more than the begging – he heard too many begging voices all day, most of them sounded deceptively like his own – to reach him anymore. But this hopelessness struck a chord he hadn't expected to be there still. Just because he hurt didn't give him the right to hurt someone else, did it? Before his by now year-long companion could leave, he rasped after him, as loud as he could manage._

"_Lie to him!"_

"You told him to lie to me? Isn't that what they do anyway? Demons lie – it's as true as 'the sky is blue'. It's one of the few ultimate truths in the world."

"Yes and no, Sam. Of course they lie – but if telling the truth, maybe altering it a little or screwing some tiny facts and keeping the rest gets them faster what they want, they take that path. And if the truth hurts more than a lie… Anyway, I told him if he wanted to make you kill him instead of only exorcising him and sending him back down, than he needed to convince you that killing would only be an option when the possessed is not anybody you might think is worth much more than a dead demon." Dean felt the indignation of his brother as clear as if he had spoken.

"What? So are you implying that there are people I find more worthy to save than others? That I wouldn't try to help them get rid of the … thing inside them? How could you…" But Dean spoke before his ranting turned into fury.

"Stop right there, my friend! I had no idea, what happened up here. I had no idea what you have been doing here. I had no idea that it was NOT fifteen or twenty years that had passed, because – funny that is – Alistair made _damn_ sure that I was never told about the strange time-warp they have in Hell. Ok? So don't turn all righteous on me, pal, because you have no right!" He stopped, painfully aware of the irony of his words. _No, I'm supposed to be the 'righteous' one, right? _But instead of dwelling – again – on the horrible outcome his resignation and submittal had had, he concentrated on Septimus. He could beat his mind bloody during sleep. As he was sure he would do, no matter how much Whiskey he used to sleep _at all_.

"I'm not implying that you would put one human above another, Sam. Not if you had a chance. That is not what I think. But Septimus didn't know that. And… well, he wanted to make sure that you used the knife, and I needed to make sure that I wouldn't have more blood on my hands. So I told him to find a host that is… well, that is either as evil as humans get, or as far from human as possible. One who had no one who would wait for him, mourn for him. Sell his or her soul for him. Told him you would _never_ kill anyone who is at least a tiny bit good."

"And you believed that he would do so? Why?" Sam was still not entirely sure how his brother could actually _believe_ a demon. _Trust _him to keep his _word!_ Demons aren't trustworthy – and damn, he should definitely look at his relationship with Ruby more closely.

"Why? I don't really know. Maybe… maybe because I did feel a little sorry. I cannot honestly say exactly why, but… well, he looked so defeated. So… broken. He was… he had lost all hope he still had, and ... I don't know, Sam. I just couldn't … I… I just couldn't." No anger this time, the last words were whispered quietly, seeking understanding, not sure if they would get it. If they deserved any. Sam swallowed.

"You didn't want to be the one to take his hope away?"

"No."

"I see." And he _did _see.

******

"So. You told him to lie to me – then what?" Dean looked at him with a cocked head. Sam was _sure_ his head was cocked; it just felt like someone cocked his head in the darkness.

"Huh… Well, I said he needed to make sure you got angry. And… uh, I might have hinted that there once was someone…"

"What? You 'hinted' about someone? About Jess? Or about Bobby???" Sam pulled the breaks before he actually called his brother a traitor. That wouldn't go well, and after all – how could he blame him? Even if _Septimus_ didn't hurt him, he still had been tortured. Hadn't he? _'There are no words…'_

"No, you jerk! I just said that there _once_ were persons you cared about, and if he would pretend that he had hurt them… I said he would probably find out who that could be…"

Sam was shocked. That did indeed sound like betrayal. And Dean had been aware of that – so why?

"_Bobby Singer?" Dean felt his heart speed up – which caused more pain in his chest then he already had. But he welcomed it; it was a pain he would take gladly again and again. 'He is still alive!' His trick had worked – he did get something in return for helping Septimus. Something he would never get anywhere else – and probably not if he asked for it straight away._

"_Yeah, that would do it."_

"_And I kill him?" This time he went cold. Deep, achingly cold, chilling his bones and spreading a numbness through him that he would have welcomed any other time – but not now. 'Please, nononononon….'_

"_No, you shouldn't. You just pretend." Even stripped bare, he still had some of his bullshitting-skills left. His voice stayed calm, never wavered, even though his entire body screamed at him in panic. "See – Bobby is a mighty good hunter. Getting to him – it would be a great risk to you. He wouldn't let you come anywhere close to you, and if he caught you… He never kills anyone. And he doesn't have the knife. He would just exorcise you – and that would mean 'Hello again' in no time. It would be muchmuch easier, if you just grabbed a cap of his – he always wears those – and faked his death. You know – trick Sam into believing you."_

_He was pleading inside, screaming at himself, begging and praying that he hadn't caused Bobby's death. 'Please, please, please – I will die a little longer, scream a little more, hurt even more – do everything – EVERYTHING God, if you just… please, please PLEASE don't let him choose to kill Bobby. I'm begging you – please. Please. ..Please…' _

_But outside, he remained as calm as he could, considering that he still wasn't healed completely and his guts were still rearranging themselves. Clinging to his last pieces of sanity, biting back the tremble, the desperation. He was sure – he knew – Septimus wouldn't be able to resist killing Bobby if he even so much as guessed his true value to Dean. Wouldn't even think twice. No. Keeping his fears locked inside was the only thing he could do. The demon seemed to be lost in thought. When again he noticed Alistair's approach, he looked at Dean and nodded. A tiny nod – but the young hunter clung to it through years of torture, together with the knowledge of Sam being alive, it made him keep up is fight a little longer. And he was sure he screamed more…_

"That was risky."

"That is putting it mildly. You have no idea how much I trembled when I dialled Bobby's number after … after I crawled out of the grave." He swallowed, the relief when he heard his friend's voice had been huge, nearly as big as when Bobby told him that Sam wasn't dead. That he had just changed his number…

"You never knew if Septimus had kept his 'promise' ?"

"No. Never saw him again after that day. Or night. Or whatever… Fifteen long years of keeping this knowledge that I might have killed our last friend… " His voice had gotten soft until it faded into the darkness.

"So… why did you risk it? I mean …were you aware of it?"

"In a way, yes. I never really considered the possibility of Septimus _killing_ Bobby… Not a good plan, I'll admit." _It was hard to come up with a plan at ALL, considering that I was somehow preoccupied with Alistair's games…_"I had planned to trick something from him. See, he already told me that my biggest worry was futile. YOU were alive. And kicking ass! I was so proud if you, so… relived to hear that. I'm pretty sure no-one else would have ever told me if you were still around. So… after that fear was gone, I kinda hoped to find out who else was still breathing. Never even thought that it was only a few weeks, or months up here…Felt even worse after knowing, thinking I might have…"

"You didn't. That's what counts!"

"Yeah…you think? I'm not so sure about that… Anyway – I, uh, after I came back… I just forgot about him. Thought he was gone already – one way or another."

The brothers sat in the darkness, each following thoughts they didn't really want to think.

Dean was numb. He had so many memories inside which he had swept carfully under the carpet, but now the talk had stirred them up again, like dustclouds. And like those they made his eyes water, his throat hurt, his heart burn. He wanted to forget again, wasn't sure how. If he could do it again… Because following in the wake of Septimus was his deepest sin, the one he would do ANYthing to undo. The choice he made… It cost him more than his peace of mind, but he would not tell Sam about _that!_ No way… Maybe… He shifted on the bed and tried to make himself comfortable, tried to feel the matress – old and worn out, but heaven compared to what his mind told him he was laying on. He longed for Whiskey, but even in darkness he would feel Sam's pity, his little borther's doggy-eyes, sooooo understanding – or maybe so uncaring? Anyway, he didn't want The Look. He had seen and felt it for too long now. Maybe, if he really tried… Maybe he could get rid of his liquid crutch? Not all at once, but… One swallow per day, only if it was too bad? Before he went to sleep? Maybe Sam would notice, be proud of him? _Man, he is right. I AM pathetic…_

Not caring about appearance anymore he slipped under the thin blanket – more for protection then actual warmth - and curled into a tight ball. He was asleep the minute his eyes closed.

Sam felt… sad. Sad for his brother, who would not be able to look him in the eyes for the next week or so, sad for all the time Dean had been in Hell. Sad and furious. How could they? How _dare _ they treat him like that? How could… He would make them pay. Every one of them. Lilith first, then the others. Ruby… yeah, Ruby too. She was playing him, he was sure about that. He went along, but his guts told him she was on her own agenda, and he didn't think it was one he had any say about. No. She would have to die too. After all, he wouldn't send her back to Hell. She should be happy about that…

He noticed Dean had fallen asleep. No Whiskey? He didn't notice, and unless he took it intravenously now, he would notice. So his brother was sober. The way he curled up, like a dog against the cold told him what Dean was expecting his dreams to be like. Nothing good…

Sam opened his laptop and started to do some research, determined to stay awake. He couldn't do much for him, but he would make sure his brother would not dream too bad tonight…

end

* * *

_Um, when I wrote this, I never even suspected about Lilith's plan. So - killing demons is good, except for Lilith (Queen-Bitch). _


End file.
